Some people are never satisfied.
I swear, if they won a Pulitzer Prize,
they’d complain it wasn’t a Nobel.
Sometimes the small triumphs
mean the most,
like not re-reading the hateful email
your ex sent to all your mutual friends.
Or when you didn’t leave the crumbs
on the counter after eating the
last slice of key lime pie
from your hands.
I guess some people thought (and I was one of those people) I might lose my accent after moving to the UK. I was sort of hoping I might lose it, because I associated my East Texas accent from my youth with ignorance, bigotry, and violence. And, yes, I have been assaulted more than once or twice by someone dripping with the twangy tones of east Texas intolerance.
I always knew, but tended to put aside, the fact that my suppressed accent was similar to the voices of people like Molly Ivins, Jim Hightower, John Henry Faulk, Ann Richards, Robert Earl Keen, Dr. Red Duke, Ray Wiley Hubbard, Joe Ely, and many more. Now that I’m further away from the KKK-loving shit-kickers, I often miss the sounds of home. I miss a voice I strangled more than 40 years ago.
Lately, I’ve been trying to write and speak in the voice I lost so long ago. Coming out of the closet, so to speak. I’m stepping from the shadow of shame, I guess. It turns out you can sound like that and not be a total asshole. You can be queer, embrace religious tolerance, celebrate your neighbours’ differences, and just try to be a decent but hopelessly flawed individual (just like everybody else).
I don’t like all your self-referential poems and
Confessional narratives where you just go on and
On and on with your boring anxieties and
Insights into a meaningless existence.
I mean, just like the time you said
She floated on an azure sky and
Had lips that made the rain seem dry.
It started as a conventional statement of
A poet who likes women with moist lips,
But then you had to go and address the
Reader directly before declaring how
Much you liked her hair that seemed to
Have been spun from mists of gold or
Some such shit.
It is just the typical male objectification of
Women, and I, for one, am tired of it,
And I’m sure the readers, if you have
Any, agree with me.
And I must here apologize to the reader
For the overall incoherence of this
Of this rant, or whatever it is.
Nobody needs poetry, anyway,
And if you are trying to process your grief, shame, or
Rage, just get out in front of it.
Lay off the self-indulgent,
Pseudo-intellectual clap trap and confront
Your own failings
Directly.
Then, you can leave your damp-lipped damsel
Alone on the beach to do whatever she wishes with
Her own alabaster thighs as you turn away
Your gaze.
I, personally, have no patience for
Anxious but idealised objectification of
Beauty. I would rather turn my attention
To the dry-lipped strength of a messy-haired
Physically strong woman who pulled me
Up, sometimes literally, when I felt I had no
Reason to lift myself.
But that is only some kind of self-interested
Infatuation, too. Idealising a person based on
My own needs.
I guess it is no wonder why so many
Male poets just describe women as flowers.
It’s years since I slithered
From the antediluvian muck
And took my first steps
In a reeking miasma.
Prying open eyes
Unaccustomed to light,
I recognised, first, evil.
I awoke to enemies.
I set out with purpose.
They must be dispatched hastily
For the good of the world.
I drove a stake through the heart.
A rake across the face.
Forced hands into wood shredders.
Poured molten lead through ears.
Drug bone saws across the crotch.
Water boarded with acid.
Castrated and then decapitated.
Immersed in boiling oil.
My knees crushed the trachea.
A sledge hammer smashed the spine.
I yanked fingernails from their beds.
I opened and salted wounds.
I disregarded feelings.
I disrespected wishes.
I locked grudges indefinitely.
But all my efforts have failed.
The monsters, demons, and evil spirits
Are still with me.
If you wish to stay,
You must get to know them.